Waiting For Nick
Page 35
"That's my little brother. He's a pain."
Before anyone could comment, a red-haired rocket fired down the stairs. She was wearing ragged cutoff shorts, no shoes, and an oversize, faded T-shirt that claimed she loved New York.
Maddy O'Hurley, Broadway's baby, made her entrance with style.
"Aaron, you little beast. Where are you? Didn't I tell you to keep this lizard in the aquarium?"
Spotting her visitors, she screeched to a halt, holding a very annoyed-looking silvery reptile by the middle.
"Oh." She blew the hair out of her eyes. "So much for elegant entrances. Freddie." She started to leap forward for a hug, remembered, and held the lizard out to her daughter.
"Julia, do me a favor and put this thing back where it belongs." That disposed of, she caught Freddie in a hard embrace. "It's so good to see you. I'm glad you could come."
"So am I." ,
"And you're Nick." With an arm still around Freddie's shoulders, she held out a hand. "It's great to meet you, at last. I've admired your work for a long time."
Nick knew he was staring, and didn't care. She did look like the woman he'd seen on the stage, on billboards. Porcelain skin, expressive face. And despite being the mother of four, a dancer's gracefully athletic build.
"My first Broadway show," he said. "Ten, eleven years ago. You were headlining. I've never seen anything like you before, or since."
"Well." Maddy decided a handshake wasn't enough, and kissed him instead. "I'm going to like you. Let's go see who else is around. We can take your stuff upstairs later."
The house wandered and was full of light, from wide glass doors, bow windows, skylights. There were occasional obstacles—toy trucks, a baseball mitt, someone's disreputable sneakers. Those touches of home melded easily with the elegance of the architecture.
In a spacious sun room, decked with exotic flowers and lacy ferns, a Hollywood legend lounged.
Chantel O'Hurley had her feet up, and her eyes closed. Nearby stood a man whose tough build and stance shouted cop to Nick's well-schooled brain.
"Brent's holding his own," Quinn Doran said, watching the children through the glass. "He may be the runt of our litter, angel, but he's game."
"Monsters," Chantel murmured, but there was a mother's indulgence in the word. "Why, if I was going to have triplets, couldn't they have been nice, well-mannered little girls?"
"They'd have bored you to death. Besides, who showed them how to use a slingshot?"
She smiled to herself. Of course, she had. Her boys, she thought. Hers. After years of longing, being afraid to hope, she'd netted three at one time.
Lazily she held out a hand, the way a woman does when she knows it will always be taken. "Come over here, Quinn, before someone finds us."
"Too late," Maddy announced. "Company. Nick, my sister Chantel, doing her Cleopatra impression, and her husband, Quinn Doran."
"Freddie." Chantel shifted fluidly to kiss Freddie's cheek, but her gaze lifted to Nick. "What excellent taste you have, darling."
"I think so."
Now Nick wasn't just staring. He was goggling.
The blond goddess aimed her sizzling blue eyes at him and smiled. Every nerve ending in his body went on full alert.
"You're writing the score for Maddy's new musical. From what I'm told, you've enough talent to make her sound professional."
Maddy simply sniffed. "She's just jealous because I have two Tonys and she only has one measly Oscar." Satisfied, Maddy signaled. "Come on, we'll see who else we can find."
"Just a minute," Freddie murmured as she and Nick passed out of the room through the doorway. She dabbed lightly at the corner of his mouth.
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a little drool."
"Funny." But he didn't resist one last look over his shoulder at the vision lounging on the floral chaise. "She's even better in person."
"Pull yourself together, Nicholas. I'd hate to have Quinn kill you in your sleep. Rumor is he'd know how to do it, quickly and quietly." Before he could comment, Freddie let out a shout. "Trace!"
While Nick watched, narrow-eyed, she launched herself into the well-muscled arms of a tawny man with a boxer's build.
"Freddie." Trace kissed her lavishly. "How's my pretty girl?"
"I'm fine." Slinging an arm around Trace's neck, she beamed back at Nick. "Trace O'Hurley, Nick LeBeck."
"Nice to meet you."
Though he was friendly enough, his eyes skimmed over Nick in a way that shouted cop again. Odd, Nick mused, he'd thought the guy was a musician. He'd even admired his work. But a cop's eyes were a cop's eyes.
"Most everybody else is in the kitchen," Trace continued. "Abby's cooking."
"Thank God," Maddy put in. "She's the only one we can trust. Are you hungry?"
"Well, I—"
"You must be hungry." She linked an arm through Nick's and barreled on, before he could finish the thought. "I'm always frantic to eat after a trip."
She led the way down a zigzagging hall. Nick noted that Trace didn't bother to set Freddie back on her feet, but carried her along, like some kind of white knight with a damsel.
The noise reached them first, and then Maddy swung open a door.
The kitchen was huge, but so crowded with bodies and motion that it seemed cozy. Only the blond woman stirring something at the stove appeared at rest.
A scrawny man with thinning hair was whirling a middle-aged woman around the room. Their steps meshed almost magically, and they miraculously avoided—through some internal radar, Nick supposed—collisions with chairs, counters and onlookers.
"Then when we went into the last number," Frank announced as he spun Molly in three tight circles, "we brought the house down."
With impressive grace, he whipped his wife into the arms of the man leaning against the kitchen counter, then picked himself up a redhead.
"Molly knows I've got two left feet." Dylan Crosby chuckled and passed his mother-in-law to his oldest son. "Here, Ben, dance with your grandmother before I damage her."
Spotting Trace, Frank grinned widely. "I've got your wife, Tracey! The girl would have a career on the boards if she'd just give up science." He dipped Gillian fluidly, then spun her back. "Hi, there, Freddie girl."
Before anyone could comment, a red-haired rocket fired down the stairs. She was wearing ragged cutoff shorts, no shoes, and an oversize, faded T-shirt that claimed she loved New York.
Maddy O'Hurley, Broadway's baby, made her entrance with style.
"Aaron, you little beast. Where are you? Didn't I tell you to keep this lizard in the aquarium?"
Spotting her visitors, she screeched to a halt, holding a very annoyed-looking silvery reptile by the middle.
"Oh." She blew the hair out of her eyes. "So much for elegant entrances. Freddie." She started to leap forward for a hug, remembered, and held the lizard out to her daughter.
"Julia, do me a favor and put this thing back where it belongs." That disposed of, she caught Freddie in a hard embrace. "It's so good to see you. I'm glad you could come."
"So am I." ,
"And you're Nick." With an arm still around Freddie's shoulders, she held out a hand. "It's great to meet you, at last. I've admired your work for a long time."
Nick knew he was staring, and didn't care. She did look like the woman he'd seen on the stage, on billboards. Porcelain skin, expressive face. And despite being the mother of four, a dancer's gracefully athletic build.
"My first Broadway show," he said. "Ten, eleven years ago. You were headlining. I've never seen anything like you before, or since."
"Well." Maddy decided a handshake wasn't enough, and kissed him instead. "I'm going to like you. Let's go see who else is around. We can take your stuff upstairs later."
The house wandered and was full of light, from wide glass doors, bow windows, skylights. There were occasional obstacles—toy trucks, a baseball mitt, someone's disreputable sneakers. Those touches of home melded easily with the elegance of the architecture.
In a spacious sun room, decked with exotic flowers and lacy ferns, a Hollywood legend lounged.
Chantel O'Hurley had her feet up, and her eyes closed. Nearby stood a man whose tough build and stance shouted cop to Nick's well-schooled brain.
"Brent's holding his own," Quinn Doran said, watching the children through the glass. "He may be the runt of our litter, angel, but he's game."
"Monsters," Chantel murmured, but there was a mother's indulgence in the word. "Why, if I was going to have triplets, couldn't they have been nice, well-mannered little girls?"
"They'd have bored you to death. Besides, who showed them how to use a slingshot?"
She smiled to herself. Of course, she had. Her boys, she thought. Hers. After years of longing, being afraid to hope, she'd netted three at one time.
Lazily she held out a hand, the way a woman does when she knows it will always be taken. "Come over here, Quinn, before someone finds us."
"Too late," Maddy announced. "Company. Nick, my sister Chantel, doing her Cleopatra impression, and her husband, Quinn Doran."
"Freddie." Chantel shifted fluidly to kiss Freddie's cheek, but her gaze lifted to Nick. "What excellent taste you have, darling."
"I think so."
Now Nick wasn't just staring. He was goggling.
The blond goddess aimed her sizzling blue eyes at him and smiled. Every nerve ending in his body went on full alert.
"You're writing the score for Maddy's new musical. From what I'm told, you've enough talent to make her sound professional."
Maddy simply sniffed. "She's just jealous because I have two Tonys and she only has one measly Oscar." Satisfied, Maddy signaled. "Come on, we'll see who else we can find."
"Just a minute," Freddie murmured as she and Nick passed out of the room through the doorway. She dabbed lightly at the corner of his mouth.
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a little drool."
"Funny." But he didn't resist one last look over his shoulder at the vision lounging on the floral chaise. "She's even better in person."
"Pull yourself together, Nicholas. I'd hate to have Quinn kill you in your sleep. Rumor is he'd know how to do it, quickly and quietly." Before he could comment, Freddie let out a shout. "Trace!"
While Nick watched, narrow-eyed, she launched herself into the well-muscled arms of a tawny man with a boxer's build.
"Freddie." Trace kissed her lavishly. "How's my pretty girl?"
"I'm fine." Slinging an arm around Trace's neck, she beamed back at Nick. "Trace O'Hurley, Nick LeBeck."
"Nice to meet you."
Though he was friendly enough, his eyes skimmed over Nick in a way that shouted cop again. Odd, Nick mused, he'd thought the guy was a musician. He'd even admired his work. But a cop's eyes were a cop's eyes.
"Most everybody else is in the kitchen," Trace continued. "Abby's cooking."
"Thank God," Maddy put in. "She's the only one we can trust. Are you hungry?"
"Well, I—"
"You must be hungry." She linked an arm through Nick's and barreled on, before he could finish the thought. "I'm always frantic to eat after a trip."
She led the way down a zigzagging hall. Nick noted that Trace didn't bother to set Freddie back on her feet, but carried her along, like some kind of white knight with a damsel.
The noise reached them first, and then Maddy swung open a door.
The kitchen was huge, but so crowded with bodies and motion that it seemed cozy. Only the blond woman stirring something at the stove appeared at rest.
A scrawny man with thinning hair was whirling a middle-aged woman around the room. Their steps meshed almost magically, and they miraculously avoided—through some internal radar, Nick supposed—collisions with chairs, counters and onlookers.
"Then when we went into the last number," Frank announced as he spun Molly in three tight circles, "we brought the house down."
With impressive grace, he whipped his wife into the arms of the man leaning against the kitchen counter, then picked himself up a redhead.
"Molly knows I've got two left feet." Dylan Crosby chuckled and passed his mother-in-law to his oldest son. "Here, Ben, dance with your grandmother before I damage her."
Spotting Trace, Frank grinned widely. "I've got your wife, Tracey! The girl would have a career on the boards if she'd just give up science." He dipped Gillian fluidly, then spun her back. "Hi, there, Freddie girl."
